A Dark and Promised Land (15 page)

“Do not say that. Their ways may seem strange to you, but that is your ignorance. I lived many years with the Ayisiniwok, and the evil always came with the traders and their drink. Do not say that!”

Several of the Baymen quietly retrieve their guns from the boats and crouch down, resting their weapons on their knees and watching the revellers.

Quietly, while attention focuses on the fire, Rose leaves Alexander's tent and moves unnoticed into the crowd of watchers. The Indian women are also drunk, and Rose sees Isqe-sis stumble toward her husband, grabbing at the keg. Iskoyaskweyau strikes her across the side of the head, and she falls hands-first into the fire. Shrieking, she rolls away while her husband yells at her, kicking her in the side.

Over the last few weeks, Rose and Isqe-sis had become close. She had learned that talk while travelling is frowned upon, but once ashore and the work of setting camp and cooking is completed, conversation, flirting, and much banter is the order. The two of them had passed many evenings deep in conversation. She had been shocked and deeply disturbed to discover that the Indians knew all about her trysts with Alexander, and that they gave it no thought whatsoever.

She also learned that the Indians did not share European ideals of love, and the women offered themselves to all, seemingly without regard or discrimination. They laboured like farm beasts while their men sat around drinking their horrid tea, gambling, prating about their bravery, and abusing them. She thought it monstrous, but Alexander had often cautioned her not to interfere with nor judge the Indians' ways.

“Rose!” Lachlan shouts as he sees Rose burst from the crowd and runs toward the fire. Several men hurry after her. When they reach the fire, Iskoyaskweyau is kicking his wife in the head, still yelling, spittle spraying from his mouth. Rose shoves him hard in the back and he trips over Isqe-sis, almost falling. His moccasin strikes a burning log, and sparks and fire roar about him. He twists in the flames, a knife appearing in his hands. He lunges at Rose as Lachlan jumps in front of her, and it sinks deep into his side; with a grunt, the Orkneyman falls to his knees. Declan sweeps up a great branch from the beach and brings it down on Iskoyaskweyau's head.

When Lachlan awakes it is morning; a canvas has been stretched over him, and he can hear the chatter of rain on the dripping cloth. A fire burns nearby, and smoke fills the small space. Someone has placed a wet cloth over his forehead. Alexander and Rose sit next to the fire and behind them he sees the dark shape of Iskoyaskweyau, his head wrapped in a bandage. Lachlan struggles to sit up.

“No, Father, you must lie quiet.”

“That Savage …”

“You are safe, Mr. Cromarty,” Alexander says. “The drink has left him.”

“His soul to the Devil! And what say you now about these Savages that you defended not a day ago?”

Alexander looks uncomfortable. “What I have always said. It is the drink that makes them mad.”

“Get him out of here!”

“I cannot. He is here to minister to you.”

“Eh?”

“Yes. Iskoyaskweyau is the best healer that I know. I asked him to see to your wound.”

“I'll not have that damned Savage touching me. Be gone, you loathsome creature!”

“Then you will die. Look!” Alexander pulls away the pad of linen pressed against Lachlan's side. Lachlan's shirt and the pad is soaked in blood; from a long cut protrudes a tongue of liver. The cloth sticks to it when pulled away.

“Without his treatment, you will die. With his treatment you may still die.” Rose chokes. “We have no physic here, nor surgeon.”

“And what assurances do I have that he will not simply finish what he failed at last night?” Lachlan says, his strength leaving him.

“A rope around his neck.”

A silence falls. Iskoyaskweyau moves beside Lachlan and as he kneels, mutters apologies. It was the drink, he says. It sets fire to him, takes over his spirit. He meant no harm to his friend's friend. He is shamed. He has lost his wife and his friend is angry with him.

“What does he mean he has lost his wife?”

Alexander sighs. “Isqe-sis died in the night.”

Lachlan rolls over. He cannot believe what he is hearing — the same man who almost killed him is going to heal him. And everyone thinks this is a capital idea, despite the fact that this Savage murdered his wife not many hours ago. What an ugly, insane brutal country this is. What had he been thinking to bring his daughter here?

“It is not how you think it is,” Alexander says as if reading his mind. “This is a different world than the one you know. It seems cruel, but women — women do not have the same value as in your country. But families are strong, and the men faithful and loyal. The missionaries try to change the attitudes, but it is tradition. A man may kill his wife, if he so decides. He must apologize to her family, and they may take revenge, but it is their way. We cannot interfere.”

“And this is acceptable to you?” Rose says turning to him, her mouth a tight line.

“I did not say so. I am just describing what is. It is always best to accept what one cannot change.”

“Like Isqe-sis's death?”

“Like Isqe-sis's death. Like Iskoyaskweyau's drunkenness. Like the presence of the traders who bring drink to the Indians. Like the disease brought by the Whites that killed my mother, and many of her people. I have told you before that there are many ways to die here.”

Rose shakes her head, but does not argue. It seems to her that while there were indeed many evils in the world, the responsibility of the civilized person is to not accept them, but to move against them wherever they might be found.
Is that not what raises us above the Savage level, that we aspire to be more than the mean situation we might find ourselves in?

She looks at the Indian sitting beside her father. She hates his foul presence, that he will be Lachlan's physician. As she watches, he gets up and mumbles something to Alexander and leaves the shelter.

“What did he say?”

“He will make a sweat lodge for your father.”

“What shall we do with her,” one of the Baymen asks Turr, indicating Isqe-sis's body.

“Damned if I know. As husband, she is his responsibility. Leave it to the Savage to decide what to do.”

“It's making the men upset.”

“So I see. Damn my eyes, there's always something, isn't there? You there, Mr. McClure!”

“Yes, Mr. Turr?”

“Speak to the Savage, will you? He must do something with this body.”

“What would you have him do, sir?”

“She must be buried or disposed of in the river or something. The men are quite upset about what has happened, and I wouldn't be surprised if our noble provider over there found himself hanging from one of these trees before nightfall.”

“Many Highlanders were also involved last night. Sir. It would do well to remember that.”

Turr takes him by the arm and leads him away. When they are out of earshot, Turr leans towards him. “There is trouble festering here, Mr. McClure. I fear that this brigade is on the verge of rebellion. And it is not just the colonists; even our own men are as surly as I have ever seen.”

Alexander looks over the camp. “You are right, Mr. Turr, I have not encountered such malaise, nor such wretched ill luck on any similar brigade. It should not happen this way. I am not sure — we are behind our time, but it is more than that. I no longer trust our journey.”

“Oh, indeed?” says Turr, giving him a surprised look. “And what is the source of this misgiving? Is it the regrettable losses we have sustained? Or is there more? Perhaps the ferrying of Selkirk's trespassers into your lands sits poorly with you?”

Alexander stares at him. “I have nothing against these people, Mr. Turr.”

“Then you are unique among your kind. It was your tribe who threatened the settlement last year, if I recall.”

“I believe that was Nor'westers, sir,” Alexander replies, keeping the edge from his voice with effort. “And Half-breeds. But I ask you to speak plain; do you believe me intent on sabotaging this brigade?”

“Hardly. But what a man thinks, and the choices he makes can oft be at odds with what lies hidden within his heart, hidden even to himself. I wonder if you are not so tormented with your current charge?”

“You may rest assured that there is no such conflict. The welfare of the brigade is my only concern at the moment. Though I wonder if it is not against God's will that we do this; perhaps He disapproves of Lord Selkirk's grand plan?”

“Who can know? But I am glad to hear of your allegiance; in times such as these all must choose sides: Scots, English, Savage, and Half-breed alike will be called to make a stand. The fate of the Company, and therefore England in Rupert's Land, hangs in the balance, and it will surely be war. Mark my words.”

“I mark them, but it already
is
war, Mr. Turr. Word has long since caught my ear that the settlement has been burned out, the Nor'westers threatening death against any who return.”

Turr stares at him. “My God, you are sure of it? The settlement has been dispersed?”

“I am not, but it would hardly be surprising giving the mood of the land.”

“But the governor may be walking into a trap. We must inform him!”

“We cannot go any faster than we are now. I have been driving the people as hard as I might, to little effect. And now we have a wounded man to consider.”

“There must be some way …”

“I will speak to Iskoyaskweyau. We can send him with a letter. I doubt the governor is far ahead of us.”

Iskoyaskweyau tends the fire as Alexander pushes the door cloth aside.

“You look terrible, my friend,” he says.

“I am a fool. Look at what the
Machi Manitou
in me has done.” He rests his head in his hands.

“Yes, you are indeed a fool, Iskoyaskweyau. A coward who has done great harm, and for this you must make amends. Why do you cringe in here? There are things that must be done; you must complete the journey that you started last night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your poor wife lies outside like carrion for the dogs to pick at and you sulk in here like a child. You must attend to her.”

“I had forgotten that in my grief.”

Both men leave the lodge. Iskoyaskweyau begins peeling birch bark to weave into a coffin. He will lace them together with hemp and cover it with several soft sleeping-furs.

He and Alexander lift the body and place it near the river. Iskoyaskweyau kneels beside Isqe-sis and smears her swollen and burnt face with vermilion. All of her possessions are arranged at her feet. Iskoyaskweyau takes a small printed sheet of paper from out of his jacket, an English wood cut of a fisherman with a creel bulging with fish. He places the prized talisman on Isqe-sis's breast.

When they are finished, Alexander looks down at her. Her broken jaw is grotesquely swollen, her hair rolls partially burnt. He wishes for something pretty to accompany her, but there is nothing at hand. Not even a flower. But then he sees Iskoyaskweyau's silver earrings, and he points to one.